


How to Run an Empire

by tukimecca



Category: SHINee
Genre: Angst, M/M, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-29
Updated: 2016-08-29
Packaged: 2018-08-11 17:53:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7902133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tukimecca/pseuds/tukimecca
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You are Kim Jonghyun and He is Kim Kibum. You are The Emperor and He is Your General.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How to Run an Empire

**Author's Note:**

> This isn’t a happy piece. Not an AU either. This is darker than it intended to be, and Jonghyun is not the sappy-Jonghyun I usually write. Warning for unhealthy relationship, which in no way I justify. If I could, I’d write accompanying piece for this where everything ends in rainbow and more sunshine.

This isn’t how to run an empire.

This isn’t how, you tell yourself as you watch him walk; away, far, somewhere your fingers can no longer reach – and you agonize over the fact that even if there’s less than an inch between your, he is still impossible to reach some times – distance uncrossed. Length infinite.

This isn’t how to run an empire, there should be as much war as much as there is diplomatic meeting. There should be as much blades crossed as smiles exchanged. There should be a pleasant morning when settlement reached, conclusion drawn, and everyone have equal amount of reward in their pocket.

There is only heart, losing its hinges and edges chipping. There _are_ hearts, previously linked now disjointed.

And there is him, smiling like tomorrow will never come but he is resigned to this fate anyways. Like human accepting the incoming end that comes with no warning nor signal. It doesn’t mock you, it sings to you though; of heartbreak and _I’m sorry_ in amount so overwhelming you feel like smashing your head against the wall just to make it _stop, stop, apologizing_ . And you remember nights away when he is curled in your embrace, repeating the _I can’t, I’m sorry,_ and your fingers are carding through his silky strands of hair – cut short, and you love it just the same, you _love_ him in same, unchanging intensity for close to a decade, and he can claw his fingers in your chest, rips your heart out, leaves you with bleeding, caving hole, and you will still _love_ him – methodical yet calming at the same time. But he was not calm, not when he was sobbing his heart out and apologizes to you, and even if you wanted to scream at his face – _stop_ – you didn’t; because you know he _owes_ you the apology.

This is not how to run an empire, because you’re sure as the pull of gravity and the inexorable way your heart will beat, in pain and joy, at the sight of him; you’re not supposed to see your man walking away to another empire – walking away to the arm of another man – and your heart breaks, with crack so loud and sickening.

This has happened before, in different ways more than you could picture in your always over-imaginative mind, to various faces your brain refuses to empty a spot for to be remembered. He walks away – your general – leaving trails of blood, dried, dark. Ugly. Stain so long that reminds you of a failure, of your falling supremacy. It’s mocking, quite, silent and steady susurration of scorn and ridicule. You had tried to scrub them clean before, but your tears aren’t enough, and somewhere along the way, you ran out of them, so you just let it there; long streak of darkened red on pristine marble floor. If you see it long enough, you will get used to it, and when you’re used to them, they won’t hurt you anymore – they _can’t_. A couple of years ago, it had finally stop hurting and your breath no longer skip when he left nothing but creases of your bed-sheet, the faintest remain of his perfume and warmth remained.

At some point, you are convinced you have stopped feeling all together, but he enters your line of sight, and you feels your lungs being mercilessly ripped away from oxygen before they’re shoved back forcefully to your throat. The emotion is violent. His presence is toxic virulent. As vicious as the raging hatred is your love, tender and rejuvenating. Kind and healing. Your heart starts beating, and sun peeks from between clouds stormy grey.

Those are the time when you are sure _this_ is how to run an empire.

When his presence bleeds colour to world bleak and dull, and the soft utterance of your name brings joy, delight that inspires you to enforce policies after policies for prosperity. When you smiles a little bit more genuine in morning routine, when you speaks a little bit more forgiving about hundreds of criminals in your dungeon. In your hands are mercy unlimited, fortune stretched as far as eyes can see, and you give them away. In return, you earn your people’s love, their devotion, and loyalty that runs as deep as your love to him. But you prays that as steadfast they are, their faith toward you is not as noxious as yours toward him.

But now, watching as the world plays everything around you in cruel slow motion, you think this isn’t how you run the empire. Your sovereignty is barren wasteland without him dripping multitude of colour. There is no corps to harvest without his sun of smile that shines with promise of fertility. There is no water to moisten the parched, dry land without his raining tears of raw, honest joy. There is no bird singing in the morning without his clear, melodious laugh. How are you supposed to run an empire that is empty with nothing but despair?

He walks away, closes the door, and you wishes your feet move; you wishes your hands reach out; you wishes your voice comes out, even if only as ugly crash and broken tumble to the floor. You wishes for _anything_ , as long as it means he is not walking away from you – as long as he is not deserting your crumbling dominion.

But it has happened too many times before to know that every step you take is as useless as trying to stop a dam from breaking with bare hands. Your hands are as undependable as broken wings of fallen bird. Your words are as powerless spoken out as the silenced ones. You can’t breathe. A singular moment of utter loss and despair. Then oxygen returns to you in harsh, cruel embrace that seizes you in near cardiac-arrest, when the door eventually closes. Its quietness is jarring contrast to the sound of your heart exploding in your chest.

You _would_ have cry, if you were a younger by a few years, and still flinching at the sight of blood on the floor. Still having nightmare about him fading away to hopeless black. But you are not you from back then, now you acknowledge the ugly reminder like acknowledging weather, and your nightmare no longer leaves you waking up like shivering leaves in unforgiving torrent of rain. So you don’t cry; all you can do is watch as he walks away, taking a fraction of your heart with him, again; _always_.

You don’t protest, not when his cry of meaningful yet empty apology is still playing in the back of your head, growing steadily louder with every ticking minutes. You tells yourself that you are setting him free, letting him walk a road his heart demands him too, even if you know he will never get anywhere without you leading his way.

You backs down, slow and only look calculated outside for inside, you are brewing storm inside; of helplessness and numb from pain too accustomed. You find your even ground and tells yourself this has happened _too many times_ before, same story with same ending, only with different route. Different armies from different enemies, your empire has fallen, yet it rebuilds itself again. It had, and it will always will. Your general has walked away, but you know, you think-

This _is_ how to run an empire. Game of politics and domination. Of room filled with smiles no more genuine than the one beside. Of control forged so to be unconditional and fully consummated that it’s near dictatorial.

Love is not supposed to be this, _this_ play of authority – so well-crafted that it comes as selfless love – over someone’s innocent heart. It’s supposed to be the most beautiful thing in the world that is as natural as breathing, as unquestionable as life itself is. But maybe you, maybe he – maybe both of you - are so wrapped up emotions destructive, and desires pernicious to forget what love is supposed to be. Somewhere along the way, you two decided that let go of the wheel without really meaning to leave the vehicle, and choose to watch as it rolls down, wait until it hits the ground, or crashes, or falls off the cliff. Either way, both you fully known the outcome will be nothing less than painful, but none of you are willing to do anything about it. Because rather than surviving alone, maybe you two has chosen long even before you get onto the ride, to embrace inevitable end together, however it chooses to come and claim.

Night passes, another, and then some. Moon wanes. You do not bemoan the lingering heartache that has become so dull you can barely discern it. You do not call. You see him on the screen, hear him laugh. You know it’s not you who brought the gold-brilliant smile on his face. You ignore the burn as your heart continues to chip away. Your eyes do not burn, and you speak in voice so level, smile so bright that nobody can tell you are decaying away inside.

It will heal. Soon. For you have watched your general walked away too many times before, past the towering gate of your empire, past the protective wall of your dominion. And it’s the same story with different play, but same outcome. This is how you run it, all you have to do is play the selfless, altruistic emperor who wants nothing but absolute best of your most trusted general. And one day he will eventually come back, dancing in diamond-cut tears, and singing his hollow apologies. You will give him your saccharine smile, and painless forgiveness. Set facile words that leave your lips like breathing, and he kisses those pair of very same lips; lips that has blessed him with too many mercy he deserved, and has serenaded him sanctuary constant, indestructible.

This is your empire, and let them try to take it down, let them rob your fortune from you. Let them _try_ , they will eventually find that your empire has nothing worth to begin with, for all worth you know, its only value that matter to you is him and he is so wrapped around your fingers. Tangled to the point of untangleable. So lost that no matter where he goes, he can only find his way back to you.

In your arms is him, offering you another of his bejewelled promises more empty than hollow itself; _no more, only you, I’m sorry, no one else_. You don’t believe him, you know how it will play out, give him a couple of months and those honey-luscious smile will be directed at someone else. There will be different man with different name, different face, and different voice. And he will walk out the door again with different clothes and different perfume. He will don none of your mark, outside. But inside, you two know better. Your mark is your heart, ripped away from your chest and now living, beating right by his and reminds him of your love so endlessly infinite. And by the end of the day he will come back to you. Always. Forever.

So you let him walk away, again, one day. But for now, as you cradle him in your arms, promising him of love that last longer than eternal, you want to keep him, pretend that he’s not going to depart someday, and lets the remaining uncorrupted part of your love control you.

This isn’t how to run an empire. But this is how _you_ run _your_ empire.


End file.
